Drifters in the Night Sky
by Raven Nightstrider
Summary: Medieval AU: A chance encounter between a runaway fisher and a shipwrecked sailor has farreaching repercussions. Featuring Kouji and Izumi. Chapter 2: A wouldbe moonlit stroll on the shore is marred by exceptionally dark thoughts…
1. Prologue

_Hello there! This is my first-ever story here, though as of 17 August 2004 I've reformatted some of the chapters to clean things up. I have to say that big hiatus or no, the overwhelming response to this story amazes me. Thank you so much! And if you're reading this for the first time, hope you enjoy!_

**Summary: **A shipwrecked, brash young sailor and a bitter runaway fisher's boy. They make for quite an unlikely pair. But on the lonely grey shores they are brought together, possibly for a higher design; at any rate, their meeting sets in motion a saga that will endanger both their lives, uncover the past, give rise to treachery and adventure, and ultimately have repercussions on a brewing civil war.

**Disclaimer: **I, Raven Nightstrider, fanfiction author, am in no way affiliated with Digimon, Toei Animation, Disney, Sensation Animation or any such copyright. I do not have their permission to write or publish this fiction based on their work. This fiction was written and published merely for the sake of literary creativity and enjoyment.****

_Liner notes:  
::Medieval AU  
::Features Kouji and Zoë (Izumi)  
::Will not contain the following: yaoi, yuri, lemon, rape_

_Warnings:  
__::Violence  
::Suspense/Intrigue  
::Mild language (but lots of it)  
::Implied child abuse  
::Mature thematic elements_

Gods Guide (because we all know how confusing deities can be)

**Mistel****: **_Queen Goddess of the pantheon—the boss of the other gods; there's no chief male god. Lady of Light, Ruler of the Sky and Gorothin's bitter foe according to local religion. Watches over the Realm of Dreams. Generally takes care of the Fate and Justice departments. Provides heaven/nirvana for holy souls._

**Aunue****:** _Goddess of the Sea; doubles as a fertility goddess. Sailors such as Zoë believe that she controls their fates in especial. Renowned for her volatile temperament due to the occurrence of fierce storms on the ocean. Allied with Soprotae, though it's a bit of a love/hate relationship._

**Soprotae****:** _Creator of the Lands. His realm (Earth), in the local religion, contains many sub-kingdoms divided into regions by terrain (deserts, forests, plains, etc.) governed by demigods that are all subject to his rule. Ally of Aunue, with whom he created the first fisherman (see 'Wayward' for reference). Animals are known as his children._

**Gorothin****:** _Lord of the Dead; not quite Satan, but still generally associated with damnation, especially in more rustic areas. Provides rest for average souls (under Mistel's supervision) and torment for evil souls: hence the Hells of Gorothin, Realms of the Damned, etc. Constantly at odds with Mistel according to local religion; some legends tell that he is a rebel god since reformed, but tension remains._

::All gods' roles are under ongoing development.::

* * *

**Drifters in the Night Sky** _by Raven Nightstrider_

_Prologue_

The sound of the waves crashing on the shore and the shrieking of hungry gulls fought for leeway to spread through the ocean air, hanging heavy with monotonous gloom. The sun was veiled by a brooding shawl of clouds. Sullen sky and scowling waves conjoined at the horizon into a grey panorama of bland oblivion, broken only by the flapping of white seabirds' wings and a ragged being borne upon the shifting crests of the ocean.

The stout wooden plank bobbed helplessly on the liquid arms of slumbering Aunue, even as slim, dove-white fingers refused to release it from their death grip. The board gently dipped and rocked under the pressure of a still face and arms laid across its width; though neither did it tip its load nor sink. Jet-black pitch clung fast to the underside and barricaded the tendrils of water from seeping into the wood. It had been the highest-quality pitch for miles around.

Gulls wailed bleakly overhead, spreading news and rumor. From their lofty midair positions they gossiped and speculated in their own shrill speech, all gazing with their black-button eyes at the forlorn little thing floating in the surf. Their talk fell on unhearing ears.

The thing was slowly, but steadily drifting across the water, the waves gently nudging it little by little closer to shore. Aunue was probably moving it in her sleep. It seemed that all the gods were having a lie-in today.

Nay_,_ cried a seagull who'd flown from afar. That thing below was no pale seal with golden kelp sprouting from its head, contrary to what several others claimed. This was one of those funny animals who walked about on two legs, were covered in feathers, fur and gods knew what else in every imaginable color, and sometimes lived on those strange objects that floated far out to sea, like giant seals.

As the birds started bickering about two-leggers and giant seals—rumor began running about one that had gotten stuck on a sharp, rocky outcropping and burst asunder—they paid no mind to the rumbling swoosh of gathering water beneath them. The sudden wake just barely missed submerging the motionless creature, instead picking it up and thrusting it a good distance toward the rocky coast. Apparently Aunue had just become aware of her unwitting burden, and was eager to dump it at Soprotae's feet and get rid of it in a hurry, as was evidenced in the swift currents speeding the thing to shore. She'd carried the poor wretch long and far enough.

---

The sound of the waves crashing on the shore and the shrieking of hungry gulls fought for leeway to spread through the ocean air, hanging heavy with monotonous gloom. The sun was veiled by a brooding shawl of clouds. Sullen sky and scowling waves conjoined at the horizon into a grey panorama of bland oblivion, broken only by the flapping of white seabirds' wings and a ragged being cast upon the colorless pebbles of the shore.

Salt water ran off her shoulders in sluggish trickles, dripping off the waterlogged rags that had could have once passed for clothes. White-gold hair fanned out beneath her head like bright sunrays dampened and quenched by the threat of rain. Her tresses, limp and running with ocean water, contrasted sharply with the dull stones and sand beneath her. Blue were the rims of pale, open lips; white was the damp, placid, closed-eyed face. The white of death.

And deathly white were the strong bare arms and slender hands that still clutched the wooden plank. Even as she lay unknowing of time, she hung on to the only possession she had left—the only friend to one forsaken by the gods and the world.

§¤§

The sharp sting jabbing his ankles as his bare feet slapped the uneven ground only spurred him on. If he kept going like this, soon he'd never have to run across these uneven tussocks of dirt again. He would be leagues upon leagues away from here. He'd be somebody. That lout he called father would never lay his hands on him, ever. The throbbing bruise on his right cheekbone was slowly dulling into a small ache, but that latest outburst would be the last he'd suffer through, gods will it. If he was just tough enough to keep running—if he could take whatever Soprotae threw at him, and he damn well would—in time enough, he would be free. He would never have to silently endure his father's temper, or have his mother just slap him and turn away, or nearly break his back hauling in nets sagging with reeking, soggy fish, or—

His foot caught on a tough-stemmed batch of weeds poking obscurely out of the gravelly sand, and he choked back a small gasp as pain lanced through his already smarting ankle. He stumbled, barely managing to regain his balance, and slowed to a limping trot to reach down and nurse his knifing joint. He _would _take whatever the unpredictable god of the lands might hurl at him, sure, but there was no sense in killing himself if the whole objective was to start a new life. He knew better than to snatch the boat—not only would it give his father cause to chase him, but Aunue was getting unpredictable and would probably just swallow him up.

However, a minor grievance like this was no excuse to stop either. Willing his whining ankle to just shut up and endure, he picked up the pace once again. It was best to keep to the dirt hills running parallel to the beach; it was much easier to run on than the gravelly stretch of sand massaged by the tides. Keep following the coastline south, though, and he should be heading straight for the port of Aepia—and he'd be someone…

All that mattered at the moment was to put as much distance between himself and… that place before dawn.

_That place. _He no longer had a home. The hovel he'd shared with his parents and called 'home' never really had been for him. He belonged on his own ship, under the stars on the high waves; not a little shack on the dunes containing naught but two pallets and misery. As far as he was concerned, the past fourteen or so years had been struck from the records altogether. He'd take orders from no one but himself—

The hairs on the back of his neck suddenly prickled. There were footsteps—barely detectable patters on the ground—but he could hear them. Behind him. Trailing him. His father? It couldn't be… both his parents had been sound asleep when he left; he'd double-checked. Sweat trickled down his spine in rivulets, and his breathing hitched just slightly as he threw himself into a dead sprint. No. No! All this work, all this effort to follow his dreams, to be free… He couldn't, he'd _never _go back. Never. That had been no life, just a daily existence of perpetual toil and despair. It wasn't worth it. He was never returning, by his own will or another's. He would rather hurl himself into the waves and sink into Aunue's dark, eternal embrace…

He slowed down just one step and chanced a glance behind him. As the realization began to dawn on his panicking mind, his hair whipped around from the sudden turn and slapped the side of his neck. The stinging on the soft skin drove it home: he was probably being paranoid. What little light was provided by the brittle sickle moon revealed no footprints on the ground; it was impossible for any pursuer to conceal himself even behind the tiny hillocks. And anyhow, what reason did anyone—even his father—have for hunting down a worthless shore-rat such as himself?

He shook himself mentally as he slowed to a walk. Right now he was nothing—a runaway fisher's boy in search of a better existence. But he just had to keep going. If he wanted it badly enough—and by sacred Aunue, he did—he'd push hard enough to make himself a life worth living.

* * *

Reviewer Responses

**Gemmani**** Girl:**_ Hey, thanks for the encouragement! I hadn't really thought that people would like it so quickly. You have my promise that I will continue working it. Yes, it would have been much wiser to put the deities explanation at the top; I was kind of caught up in the excitement of finally arriving at FFN as an author, not a lurker and didn't think too carefully. Sometimes I can act appallingly moronic, sorry. (looks sheepish) As for the job… I think you saw at the top how (un)well that went. (hangs head in disgrace)_

**Akino**** Ame:**_ I read your review and was flattered speechless. You do not know how glad I am to know that you like my first attempt at writing an actual good Digimon fic—particularly since reading _With Broken Wings_ is what pushed me to finally get an FFN account in the first place. :-) Although I think Kouji and Izumi make a very nice pair, I must agree with you. I don't like reading pure romance fictions, and the few that I have read—involving any couple, not just Kouzumi—have very little substance or plot to them. They were a pain to read, quite frankly. I kept searching for a decent Kouzumi adventure plot not long after starting this story, to look for a sort of reference point to compare my work to, and I kept turning up diddly-squat. No surprise then that I jumped for joy upon finding _With Broken Wings_. Seriously, it is just about the only great Kouzumi I have read on this site. Thank you for writing it—it's a very enjoyable and captivating read! :-) I'm flattered that you think I have such potential. I'll try to live up to it!_

**Lonely Angel of Light:**_ Glad you liked the prologue! I hope you'll like the rest just as much, once I have it up._

**wand3ringspirit:**_ I know, it's a bit slow at first. There won't be all that much action in the beginning, but don't worry, the angst really picks up in Chapter 4 and there will be action/suspense immediately after. I'm not saying anything else. ;-) [**Edit:** I actually type everything up as a Word document and save it as a webpage. But if you want to know how to use HTML tags, you can find tips on 's FAQ, or just do a quick Google search.] [**Edit:** YES, the rest of the Frontier crew _will _be making appearances in the series. However, don't look for them anytime soon.]_

_Overall, thanks for the wonderful support! It keeps me going. Any who haven't read/reviewed yet, dropping me a review never hurts… ;-)_

_Thanks again,  
Strider_


	2. Wayward

**Disclaimer:**_ I own none of the characters from _Digimon_ and do not have the permission of the proper owners to write this work of fiction, which exists purely for the non-profit purpose of enjoyment._

Chapter One, part one: _Wayward_

Rustef's bleary eyes roamed up and down the shore, the cries of seabirds grating against his ears. It was hard to see much in the dim predawn. But as far as he could tell, there wasn't a soul in sight. The sigh of the waves sprawling on the coarse sand and sinking back revealed nothing to him. Mayhap Aunue had caught the brat sneaking into her territory on some midnight romp and pounced, ensnaring and claiming him for all time.

The man swore softly. Only one set of fading footprints dotted the sand at the water's edge and the dunes above—his own. The heavy prints nailed the facts deeper into him: with the boy gone, he'd have to work twice as hard to haul the catch in each evening. That was sure to shorten the amount of living years he could look forward to. But then again, the fish were dwindling with each passing season. The small family had been feeling the pinch of hunger tightening on them since spring. They would only have survived the winter if Mistel had seen fit to grant them a miracle.

Maybe things would be different now. With Kouji gone, it was only one less stomach to fill. His and Larani's survival would be almost guaranteed, now that they would each get a bigger cut of the fish this year.

Rustef sighed and kicked up some loose clumps of dirt at his feet, cursing again. Larani… she was well beyond childbearing age. It would be just her and him now. Besides, a babe would do more harm than good in the impending shortage. In times past the little thing might have been a symbol of hope and promise for them, but Rustef had let go of hope long ago—Larani even earlier. She'd carried two children before and after Kouji, and lost them both before they were born.

Hope did them no practical favors. Hope might have temporarily bolstered their spirits once, but it had so far done nothing to deliver them from their poverty. Fourteen years ago, their new child had given him such hope… such false hope…

He shook his head, staring absently at the dark grey, lumpy cloud cover becoming slowly revealed by the hidden sunrise. The boy seemed to have been born almost without hope—whatever hope he'd had was beaten out of him eventually. But as a little boy, he did have some—Kouji had been enthralled with by the laughing waves under the night sky, studded with glittering stars; the idea of commanding a great ship and sailing all over the world…

Rustef was slightly startled to realize that he was smiling faintly at the memory. He thought he'd forgotten how to smile. It all went to show what sort of boost the boy had once brought to his weary, crusty old soul. But the lad's dreams turned him right willful, as he neglected his work to gaze at the night sky. The man's face hardened as the little smile faded into his habitual frown once more. Beating the boy was the only way for him to gain any sense. Rustef's own father had disciplined him that way, as had his grandfather before him, and his grandfather's father, and so on all the way back to the very first fisherman, molded from wet sand by Soprotae and Aunue and enlivened by Mistel. It was just the way to do it. Being all soft on boys only meant that they became starving delinquents as adults.

But as his son matured under the discipline, Rustef had watched the light in Kouji's eyes wither into bitterness. The man couldn't remember anything relevant of his own childhood besides hard work without end, but he wondered: had his own father gone through the same thing, watching youthful idealism fade into the gruff practicality of adulthood? Then again, _he _had never bolted away overnight without leaving a trace.

Rustef turned around and began trudging back up to the windswept little hut overlooking the sea, trying to will all the ponderings out of his head. Walking about with one's head in the clouds only shortened one's road to Gorothin's pits. He shook himself mentally, reminding his mind that it yet belonged in Soprotae's realm, not Mistel's.

It was dank and musty inside their tiny, cramped house, but Rustef hardly noticed the cloying stagnation of the air; nor did he feel the hard-packed dirt floor shift under the pressure of his feet. He'd long lost track of how many years he'd called this shack 'home'.

"Well?" The question was mumbled more to the creaky timber wall than to him. The fisherman sighted in on the compact form of his wife, hunched over several baskets of dried fish near the back wall.

"He's gone," Rustef grunted.

"Good rid to him," Larani grumbled after the barest moment of silence. "'E's been more trouble than is worth feeding. Damn good of him to up and pack hisself off afore 'e got it in his head to shred the nets to bare strings, or…"

He rolled his eyes, letting his wife ramble on about their son's faults and shortcomings. The man—and, come to think of it, the boy himself—had listened to enough of such rants over the years to know their contents by heart. Rustef paid them no mind, but just now a thought struck him for the first time: for all that Kouji had appeared to sit through his mother's tirades with utter indifference, what feelings had he harbored in his soul about such stinging criticisms?

An impatient calling of his name brought him back to reality. "Eh, woman?" he growled as a form of requesting repetition.

"Ye know where 'e off to? Saw aught of him?"

"Not one gods-curst trace. 'E might've run off and…" Rustef trailed off as he realized just what theory he had been about to put forth. Was it really possible? Could even such a morose young soul as his offspring actually—

"Aye, he's already bolted, husband—or has the reek of rotting fishmeat leaked into your brain that ye've just now noticed?" Larani's interjection chopped harshly into his train of thought as the woman shuffled around to fix him with a hawkish glare.

Rustef only stared back at her. Larani had been something near attractive when they had wed, fifteen years ago or thereabouts—he couldn't remember for sure. However many the years had been, the drudgery they'd brought on had taken its toll on the woman he shared his life with. The female that faced him was now a haggard, bone-thin wretch, bent and worn with cares and troubles.

"He… mayhap 'e gave hisself up to Aunue. Gone an' sacrificed hisself…" Rustef's voice was even rougher than usual. That boy would have to have been drained right dry of hope and happiness to have done such a thing. _Aye, but he's been stirrin' up naught but trouble all this past week, _he tried to reason with himself. _If 'e was so miserable an' bothersome, the world's better off without 'im._

"If Aunue's claimed the brat, just as well," grunted Larani. "Leastways we ain't starvin' this winter, what with 'im gone. 'E was naught but useless in his las' days. I's already said it—good rid to 'im."

"Aye," her husband muttered. But Rustef couldn't help stealing one fleeting glance over his shoulder, out the doorway back at the moody sky, a dark grey-blue smear in the predawn light. Somewhere behind that thick cloudy cloak were hidden the fading moon and dimming stars, retreating from the sun's concealed but steady advance. The grey waves chuckled slightly as they lapped against the shore.

Maybe Kouji was still alive. Maybe he'd gone off in search of a new life; the boy may yet have a trickle of hope still flowing in his blood. And maybe—just maybe—he might one night sail under the glinting stars, heading off to adventure in the far reaches of the world yet untracked.

Perhaps the gods would smile upon him and grant the boy the happiness he'd been deprived of all his life. Until then, Rustef could only wish his son the best of luck.

_Well I'm packing my bags 'cause I don't wanna be  
The only one who's drowning in their misery  
And I'll take that chance 'cause I just wanna breathe  
And I won't look back and wonder how it's supposed to be  
How it's supposed to be…_

—Michelle Branch, "Empty Handed"

* * *

Reviewer Responses

**Gemmani**** Girl:**_ Yes, well, I suppose we'll all fall into the flow at one point or another. But until then and even after then nobody's perfect. It would indeed be interesting to include Kouichi and the twins factor, but for this fic Kouji will be an only child. You actually added this into your favourites? I'm honoured! Glad you like it this much!_

**Akino**** Ame:** _I suppose neither you nor I should be surprised that I'm not the first one you've inspired. ;-) Thanks for the recommendation, I'll look into that. (And you could have recommended your own With Broken Wings, you know…) No, I never watched much Zoids, but interesting analogy there—especially with the character you named, "Raven", hmm… funny. And another funny thing: I had in fact been thinking vaguely of the Tortallan pantheon—Ganiel the Dream King, Mithros, the Black God and the Great Mother Goddess in particular—when I created Mistel, Aunue, Soprotae and Gorothin. I read on your bio that you like the "Circle of Magic" series; I've only read the first book but I find it very intriguing. I myself am a big fan of Tamora Pierce's Tortallan quartets; Protector of the Small in particular. You really should read it if you haven't already. You really think I have good skills? I'm honoured, thank you! (P.S. I don't have any particular favourites for the first two seasons, but I am a Ryuki fan.) ;-)_

**chibi**** minamoto:** _Heh__, your review made me laugh a bit, no offence meant. Sorry if you find the plot confusing; some of my stories just turn out that way. [**Edit: **I hate to burst a bubble, but I have reversed my counsel and decided not to say anything regarding romance.] This story is meant to contain mostly adventure, drama, peril and suspense. Hope you'll still like it like that._

**reviewer**** 101:** _Don't worry, I will keep up on this, good quality and all! Just as long as there are good people like you around to appreciate it. Yes, I do try to get the paragraphing in a good arrangement; it always ticked me off as a lurker when the formatting was all messed up. I'm trying **very **hard to avoid any clichés or predictable moments—I always hated those._

**Kouzumi**** Freak:** _Wow, I'm making your favourites list already? Thanks! [**Edit: **But as I have said before, I am no longer saying anything regarding romance or couples.] Zoë and Kouji won't even meet till… hmm, give it a couple of chapters, and I'm not saying anything else. ;) And anyhow this story is designed to focus primarily on the plot, secondarily on the couple. Sorry if that disappoints you._


	3. An Identity Adrift

**Disclaimer:**_ I only write this work of fiction for enjoyment and sharing with other fans of Digimon. I do not own Digimon or its characters and do not have permission from its owners to write this fic. Also, I am thoroughly inexperienced with the parts of a boat or with various medical effects described herein, so I can only beg purists to forgive me._

Chapter One, part two: _An Identity Adrift_

Dark waters. They lapped soothingly against her like her mother's soft, velvety palms; gently washing off the innumerous scrapes and scabs on her body, easing all the aches and bruises. It felt so comfortable, like she hadn't felt in years.

For a long, long time she just lay there, reveling in the comfort of simply resting on her side and letting the gentle waves lap around her, lulling her numb senses. She shifted in and out of conscious thought, and what little coherent reasoning she half-heartedly managed to string together simply dissolved in the water around her. Maybe this was what lying among the stars, perching atop a tear of Mistel, actually felt like. How easy was to just let go, to feel like this forever, never having to think again…

Glimmers of dull orange began to intrude on the luxurious blackness in her weary eyes, and she gradually began to feel a deep, stiff ache settling into her bones. The water still washed around her, but it now felt gritty and crude. Ever so slowly, she became aware of tiny abrasive grains biting into the soft skin of her upper arm, and a great heaviness seemed to descend upon her hitherto weightless, gliding body. As physical sense trickled back into her, her mind remained suspended in time, separate from the streams of thought. She could not think; only feel the shift in mood from relaxation and content to annoyance. Unable to conjure any semblance of thought, her heart was left to childishly whimper and long for the comforting blanket of darkness to be draped over her again.

It was growing evident that the blanket had been lifted, for no darkness could warm her skin to melting point. She felt unclean and covered with grit, and small, blinding spots of light began to dance in her eyes. The grating little noise that might have been a moan surprised her as it tore out of her now stinging throat.

The tiny pinpricks of invading anti-dark slowly expanded, pervading her reeling senses with first a dull red, then orange, then searing white-yellow. It burned painfully into her vision as another low groan caught her once more off guard. The lovely darkness had now fled altogether.

She had fallen from that ethereal perch—her head spun nauseatingly and her skin was melting from the heat it radiated. She willed the invasive light away, trying to crawl back into the darkness inside herself. But the darkness no longer welcomed her. It pushed her back out, trying to force her back into self-sufficiency.

This was too much. Her body was dissolving in the elements and now she had nowhere to run. She no longer had that alternative to simply facing the bright inferno threatening to consume her. Except maybe one… to simply give up. It was incredible how appealing that second choice seemed right now.

An terrible feeling of wrongness—she was in no condition to define it as nausea—twisted her innards as her body, if not her mind realized that the bile rising in her throat had cut off her air supply. Her stomach heaved, and without her permission it simply expelled its contents, seawater and all.

She trembled violently, her body caught in a rattling hacking fit just after she vomited. The light dazzled her and the tangy coastal air in her throat burned with the ferocity of her ill-being. Her world seared red as the hitherto stagnant blood convulsed within her veins.

Finally, finally Gorothin released her from the torment as she landed hard on abrasive terrain. She lay still, choking and mewing pathetically in her weakness. Then a blazing pain shot from her forearms to her brain and she inhaled with a sharp hiss as her eyelids scrunched and cracked open.

With a sudden yelp she shut them again, even as she threw her forearms up over her face, when an excruciating lightburst shot through her head as clean as a well-placed blade thrust. Agony ripped her ever-so-slowly restoring mind open, laying bare her last hope for returning to herself. She could no longer hide in the dark, but she was yet unready to come into the light. Her stomach convulsed as though threatening to erupt again, but there was nothing left to give. Unconsciously she realized why—a wild sensation of being lost; of being carried helplessly away by unending waves. She groped blindly, frantically for whatever her arms had been resting on and grabbed it. The edges felt splintery and crudely-hewn against her once-numb fingers, but though the abrasive surface seared her skin, she held fast to it, terrified of losing it again. And she continued choking.

Even as she retched miserably, that awful piercing light suddenly… faded; muted as though veiled and diminished. She was at last beginning to accept that she could no longer hide… yet even as she worked her way to this conclusion, her eyes autonomously flicked open again.

Swirls of grey danced before her, and her body fought her mind to keep her eyes open. The bland landscape shook slightly as she coughed again, but this time she could maintain some semblance of control, and the fit gradually subsided.

This time her own will powered the moan escaping from cracked lips, which was confirmed by a quick flick of her swollen tongue. A sharp taste that she somehow registered as salt seemed to crackle and bite unpleasantly at the tip. The hiss of flowing water behind her scraped gratingly at the inside of her skull, which she now knew to be aching horribly.

_Well, lying down forever won't make it any easier. _She was too tired to rejoice at the gradual return of her coherence. Restless energy was now crawling through her system—she had never liked sitting around and being useless. Ignoring the sharp biting feeling on her palms, she slowly, gingerly levered herself up.

Even her cautiousness could do nothing to prevent the resultant sick whirling sensation and she swayed for a moment, reeling as she struggled to regain her bearings. Once the world had settled down around her again, she cast it a sluggishly sweeping glance. Grey. Everything was grey. There was a nearly white patch overhead from where that terrible light was being strangled, but otherwise…

_Maybe I was sent to the Realm of Dreams by mistake, _she mused. Seconds later another thought jarred her—_No, that can't be right. I… I'm alive. _A sharp pain in her palms quickly corroborated that.

With a short yelp her stinging hands flew up to her face, then one quickly dropped back as that lost, drifting sensation rose suddenly and threatened to overwhelm her. She followed that trembling hand, struck by its sickly greenish pallor underneath the tiny sparkling grains coating the back. She was hanging fast to a dark wood plank with jagged, garish-looking edges, which contrasted jarringly with her bland surroundings. That explained the splinters on her fingers, she concluded disconnectedly.

In an instant, a sudden image flashed through her dully throbbing head: _She was treading water, shivering in its chill. Her teeth rattled with the cold, but it was incomparable to the rage, grief and despair tearing at her heart. The thickly-muscled man ahead of her was frighteningly pale, but his face was set as he shoved her a broken-off plank, which bobbed helplessly toward her._

"Gilippen," she whispered, starting when she realized that the parched, cracking voice belonged to her. Gilippen… where had that come from? No—of course. Gilippen. Gili. He was the one who had shoved her this sorry piece of driftwood… but why?

_I would have drowned without it._

Her heart was rent in two without warning, and she choked slightly as everything gradually came back. She'd been on a ship—they'd hit something… A faded, indistinct picture of a large, burly commandeering sort of man looking her in the eyes, grim and yet sorrowfully affectionate all at once, as she clapped her on the shoulder. Her free hand drifted up to her shoulder, remembering the familiar firm warmth of his weathered meaty hand right there, seeming to just fit. She had loved him dearly… known him for so long…

_Pop._

The word exploded in her mind and her breathing hitched as sorrow arose and threatened to suffocate her. She couldn't put her finger directly on it just yet, but somehow… she knew that her father, Gili and several others were gone forever.

More disconnected words and phrases sifted into her immediate memory. _Kalikar__…_ the Kalikar. The ship… the proud ship that this little plank had once been a little part of. She gingerly lifted the piece and found it to be pure black. Yes. This must have been a part of the… the bottom of the ship, what was the word… the hull.

_Run aground… crow's nest… Ralson…_ Ralson, he'd been one of the… what was it? _Deckhands.__ Yukreph. _He'd been another sailor. And so were Tigro, Shalleny, Niblan, Ereston, Halswith… so many words were flooding back into her that she couldn't keep track of them.

_My little girl…_ murmured a rumbling bass from somewhere deep in her yet unreachable memory. It sounded again, but commanding and businesslike this time. _Get to it, sailor. If we must die, we die honorably._

Unconsciously, she clenched her jaw against the tears that threatened to flow again; she now recognized those sentences as the last she ever heard from her father.

She heard his voice a third time. _Be strong. I raised you to be a strong girl. Make me proud of you, Zoë._

Zoë…? Who was Zoë? Who—who was _she?_ Her confused trailing thoughts were constantly interrupted by and entangled with each other, so she was hard pressed to get anything straight.

Just _who _was she? This question disturbed her deeply even through her newly revived grief. She could remember her father, the names of the sailors she had worked with, the name of her ship; yet she could not even recall her own deep past or her identity.

Careful of the lingering headache, she turned to the colorless waves, fuzzily reminiscing that in the lost past, she had always looked to them for an answer. She closed her eyes against the tang of the weak salty breeze wafting up to her, listening to the murmuring speech of Aunue.

_Kali, kali, karri, kali, _the ocean seemed to whisper to her, urging her on to the truth. It all seemed to point to the _Kalikar_, but Aunue often had an odd notion of what 'help' meant. She already knew what the _Kalikar_ was…

_But my name—part of my name—it sounded like _Kalikar_… _she suddenly thought. _Kali… Kaliken? No, that doesn't seem right. Karikal? Kalikath?_ She just couldn't get it.

She surprised herself when she slammed a fist onto the wood plank—immediately regretting it as the splinters dug deeper into the sensitive flesh of her fingers—and loosed a feral yell accompanied by the roundest, bloodiest oath she could contrive. A despairing sob finally broke from her lips. Why? Why couldn't she remember?! By the gods, what had she done to offend Mistel and so deserve this miserable fate?

A small gaggle of seagulls wheeling overhead shrieked and keened in alarm overhead. _Ni, niah, ki! Ki, ni! Ki! Keah! Ki!_

Below them, the girl's eyes flew wide open. She had not the gift of understanding the speech of Soprotae's children, but the cawing of the gulls struck her home. Ni… ki… they were both sounds in her name, that much she remember. Niki… but that was only part of it, of that she was sure.

_Keah__, keah, ki! _screamed the gulls. _Keah ki! Ni ki! Keah ni ki!_

She reeled as the realization rammed through her. Keah ni ki. Ka… Kaniki. Kanikey. Yes—that was it! Kanikey!

_Make me proud of you, Zoë,_ her father's ghostly voice reminded her.

Zoë… Zoë… The girl nearly fell backward from remembrance and utter incredulousness at herself. Zoë! Her frustration had momentarily driven the memory right out of her head, but now she was incredibly appalled at both herself for being so shamefully slowwitted, and the gods for toying with her sanity as they had just done.

She felt the name—her name—beginning to fade from her mind again and grasped desperately at it, just as she had clung desperately to the only physical remnant of her past, the wooden plank, not so long ago. "Kanikey,"she reminded herself firmly, affixing the title securely in her head out of terror of losing it. "I am Zoë Kanikey. Daughter of Murney Kanikey, captain of the _Kalikar__._"

With a stabbing pang she belatedly realized that the second half of her statement now belonged to the past. Furiously wiping her watering eyes with the back of her hand, she let out a sharp exclamation when the salt still crusting the skin grated against her eyelids.

Swearing heatedly, Zoë Kanikey immediately looked to her beloved ocean for relief as she dipped her hands in the clear, bitingly cold waves to wash away the grit, then carefully wiped her eyes. The splinters stung, but they could be troubled with later. A quick glance down at herself told her all she needed to know about just why she felt so misshapen. Her upper body felt rather dried out and heated as the sun had beaten down on it, and her arms and left thigh glittered fiercely with salt extracted from the evaporated seawater. Her right arm and hand, which tingled rather unpleasantly as circulation began cutting its way through her veins again, was still planted firmly on top of the plank. She could feel the grains just sitting and gently grating on her weathered skin. But her left side, from her chest right down to her bare ankles and toes, felt shriveled in the inches-deep water they still rested in. Her clothing had been reduced to shredded rags that barely sheltered her skin from the elements.

Careful to avoid the small puddle of sick she had recently spewed, she pushed herself up out of the water and fully onto the gritty shore, wincing as the coarse sand and pebbles dug into her skin. Then, hesitating for a bit before removing her hand from the fragment of the _Kalikar_, she began to vigorously brush the salt from her skin. Zoë sighed in relief as the peevish itching sensation was abruptly removed, and again when the sun peeked out again between a gap in the heavy blanket of clouds. She blinked furiously, but at least she had the chance to dry herself out and the light did not glare off her skin to dazzle her this time.

As she reached up to brush off her the back of her neck, Zoë caught a hank of frazzled, knotted hair between her slender fingers, gritty to the touch with innumerous grains of salt. Well, that could be bothered with later. She had more pressing issues to worry about, such as the realization that she was thirsty.

She looked the morose grey shore up and down, fighting down the resultant dizziness. Nothing but grey sand and grey pebbles. Behind her, on the mainland, were dusty sand-dunes and dirt hills, with the occasional rocky outcroppings. Absolutely nothing to indicate fresh water within her vicinity.

Zoë racked her brain, trying hard to ignore the rising heartsickness as she tried to remember where they were when the… accident had happened and where their destination had lain. But apparently her mental capacity could only hold so much information so soon after waking; she could come up with nothing.

Closing bloodshot pine-green eyes against the memories returning to haunt her, she scanned the blended horizon. The sun in its lofty midday perch glinted off of the waves, but there was nothing far out to sea. There was nothing bobbing out on the water except the occasional floating gull. Nothing to indicate the presence of the dead wreck that was the _Kalikar_, or her ill-fated crew. Zo's empty stomach squirmed as she realized just how alone she was. Alone, stranded Mistel-knew-where in Soprotae's realm, with none to rely on but herself.

With a shuddering sad sigh, her eyes alighted on the plank. It had saved her life, and was now her only companion. A light zephyr floated in from the ocean, and she shivered. _Damn! _she growled silently. She had better pray Mistel that there was a village or fisherman's hut or at least _something _nearby that could sustain a shipwrecked young mariner with no semblance of supplies, or she'd never last the night.

Carefully and with a total lack of coordination, Zoë pushed herself to her bare feet. Her soles were nearly—_nearly_—as tough as the sturdiest leather; they could easily withstand a few miles or so of walking. If only she could say the same for her lax muscles. She lurched unsteadily about, nearly collapsing several times before regaining her bearings. Still, she knew that getting anywhere would be a struggle.

She looked down at her rent trousers and sighed with quiet relief when she found her belt and canvas drawstring pouch miraculously intact. So were its contents: four gold bits, a tiny steel plate and a small flint. With the bits she might be able to buy her sustenance—_if _she could indeed find one who supplied them—and with her good old flint and steel she might not freeze to death this autumn night. Her heart sank, however, as she thought of her knife, locked in her little chest aboard the doomed _Kalikar_. She hoped that she wouldn't need to use any weapon in the short term. And at the moment, it seemed that the short term just might prove to be very short indeed.

There was nothing in sight to burn for a fire that night. Nothing except… Zoë groaned as she set her eyes on the little wooden plank at her slightly swaying feet. To burn that, she felt, would be like cannibalizing her only friend. _It's just a godforsaken piece of firewood! _her reasonable side argued. _It's useful, why waste it?_

Zoë eventually acquiesced to necessity, but the prospect of using her inanimate savior thusly still saddened her. She carefully bent and picked up her only friend, cradling it in her hands. "Well, guess it's just you and me now," she murmured. The gulls overhead screamed their encouragement. _Keah__ ni ki! Keah ni ki! Ni ki!_

And with that, Zoë Kanikey, last crewmember of the _Kalikar_, took her silent companion and turned to trudge painfully up the incline leading to the dirt dunes several meters above, searching for her life.

* * *

Reviewer Responses

**reviewer**** 101:**_ Hey, hope you're still there, though I understand if you're not—and in that case, I'm the only one to blame. :( Sorry again! Anyhow, I'm inclined to agree as far as couple mush—I've believed for a long time that good fiction revolves around the plot, not the couple. Glad to see the description was up to scratch in your book. Helpful critiques? I hope so too!_****

**Akino**** Ame:** _Wonderfully intriguing? I hope I can keep it that way. The Abomination is proving very hard to control. :-/ When you refer to the similarities to Third Ship Kisubo, I wondered if you thought I was lifting the scene direct from that book. Funny thing is, I was very vaguely thinking of Daja's situation while writing that chapter. (Speaking of which, from the looks of your updated bio you've found _Protector of the Small_; good for you. It's a great series.) And no, no magecraft or anything fantasy/science-fiction is planned thus far for _Drifters_; it'll be strictly realistic, or as near as I can make it.  
I recently read your updated bio and was blown away by how you spoke of me. I don't deserve it, seriously! Akino, I'm completely floored that you think so highly of my work, Kouzumi included—I haven't even put Kouji and Zoë into a scene together yet! Geez, now I feel really spoiled. Thanks so much! You really made my day. (P.S. I'm well aware of how name-spelling inconsistency drives you up the wall; don't worry, there's a reason why I'm using Kouji's Japanese name and Zo's dub name. The explanation won't be until much later, however.)  
Thanks for those Ryuki recommendations; I'm looking into them! _A Forbidden Love_ looks especially promising._

**chibi**** minamoto:**_ YES! I have decided that I will include the rest of the Frontier team. However, don't look for them anytime soon, sorry. (wince) I don't remember seeing Izumi _that _cruel before…_

**ichiiko****:** _Yet again, glad you love the descriptions! I myself am a bit unsure about them, however. :-/_

**won't say:** _Too much description? I'm not at all surprised that you pointed that out; in fact, I find that I have to agree. No time to get revising just yet though; I've got another revision project running and I still have to update! Well, I haven't even put Kouji and Zoë into a scene together yet, let alone a romantic one, so I'm quite surprised at all this positive feedback I'm getting regarding the couple's role. Thanks anyway, though!_

**Gemmani**** Girl:**_ Thanks! Well-written… let's hope I can keep it up._

**Carbonated Angel: **_Ah, yes, I'm a Tolkien-phile. I'm still trying to find a way to get to Rivendell from here; I hear Master Elrond is Halfelven himself (like me!) and maybe will accept me into the Last Homely House. ;-D And may I note that you're not the only inexperienced newbie here… I might have been here since October, but I haven't updated for so long that I'm still a newbie for all practical purposes. But in my book, newbies who can pick out good writing are off to a great start. Thanks a lot!_

**Aelynsage****: **_L__ike I just said to Carbonated Angel—I may have been here since last October, but I've been posting so erratically that for all practical purposes I'm still new. But lurkers and new authors still often have valuable advice to give, so don't __apologise__ for being new; I would definitely think just from reading your review that you know what you are talking about.  
I really appreciate your honesty. Constructive criticism makes me feel great; thanks for your advice! Yes, I will work on the gods' names (if you backpedal to the prologue you'll notice I added a little guide), though maybe if I write them in enough readers will get used to them. If you think this little fic is confusing already, try reading the first fifty pages of J.R.R. Tolkien's The Silmarillion and you'll find out what it's like to confuse gods' names. ;-) As you just read, the story is still split-sided, but that will soon change. :-) Thanks for adding this to your favourites! Maybe this fic isn't so lousy after all._

_Again, my thanks for your support! All I can say is… you guys rock._

_Until Fate crosses our paths again…__  
Raven_

_P.S. Today is 9 October, or so it seems… and if you're reading this, my friend (you know who you are!), HAPPY BIRTHDAY!! :-)_


	4. Run Away

**Disclaimer:**_ I do not own _Digimon _or any of its characters. I do not have permission from its owners to write this work of fiction, or permission from Dido to reprint her lyrics herein. This story was written purely for enjoyment._

_Thank you so much to any and all still reading for your patience. I beg your forgiveness thousands of times over. My excuses for the horribly long delay, as well as liner notes and author's comments, can be found on my LiveJournal. The URL is on my bio page._

**Dedicated to anyone who has ever been abused or neglected by the ones who are supposed to care the most; also to anyone like Kouji and myself who has ever wanted to just end it. Don't give up—you're not alone; there's still hope.  
**_—Raven_

* * *

Chapter Two: _Run Away_

No moon had the power to pierce the heavy shawl of clouds wrapping the grey crescent-orb in its suffocating folds. Stars flickered bleakly, insubstantially through what few gaps in that stifling blanket could be rent. Aunue was just as dark and brooding this night; the waves muttered sullenly as they licked the coarse gravel that constituted the shore.

Even the landscape he'd looked to for hope for the past fourteen years could give him no solace. The veiled, dying pinpricks seemed very representative of his soul at the moment, and he wondered not for the first time just _why_ the gods saw fit to torment him so. Maybe he wasn't the only one that Gorothin had turned the others against, but in his present mood, such information was insignificant.

He was wasted. Even after all his vows, all the oaths and curses he'd flung at himself, he could go no further. His chest heaved, his lungs threatening to burst as his muscles withered from overexertion. His right ankle—the damned thing that had brought him down to begin with—pulsed and throbbed with hot, stabbing agony.

Loose dirt and sand wasn't the most comfortable resting spot, but it served for the moment. But he knew that if he were to keep going, soon the dunes would turn altogether into sand, forcing him lower, closer to more solid terrain near the shore. Not that running over all the pebbles and gritty sand would bother his toughened soles terribly, but he was all too aware of what hell they would be on his ankle in its present condition.

Yet again, he called himself five kinds of idiot for not watching his path more closely. He'd nearly twisted his ankle and fallen on that weed a hundred paces back or so. He could have done much worse—namely, broken his ankle or otherwise incapacitated himself. He couldn't afford to delay, especially not now. There was only so much canvas he could have filched from the house, but he still had about three days' worth of dried fish left in the little impromptu sack now lying in a crumpled lump beside him. The water in his canteen had sloshed around with every step, and he breathed a prayer of gratefulness to Aunue when he checked the cap and realized that it was still firmly closed. The precious liquid could have easily leaked out, dooming him for certain.

The waterskin was pitifully small, however. He'd been making a point to eat that pestilent fish only when it was a choice between that or passing out from fatigue. Curse whatever demigod handled food that the only way to preserve it was to lather it in salt! Between the pace he was trying to set and his loathsome provisions, the fresh water wouldn't last five hours.

_Fresh water…_ For the first time, he wondered if he should have pilfered a couple skins of ale instead. Upon first trying that beastly concoction years ago, he hadn't been able to get up on his feet or keep anything down for days. Suddenly his back prickled at the memory of large, hard knuckles making impact, right between his shoulder blades. And another blow, just as forceful.

"Gods damn you, boy!" roared a hoarse male voice above him as he pushed himself up on his palms—the strength behind the hit had knocked him face-first into the dirt floor. "By Aunue, getcherself up! Men don't wail and whine about a dancing stomach! You'll get used to it. Get up an' make yerself useful, else I'll bind ye up in a net an' offer ye to Gorothin meself!"

He snapped his eyes wide open, unaware that he'd shut them against the memory. That had been years before. It was also one of the few out of the many beatings that stood out in his mind. The rest were so numerous that they were all muddled together in a lump of a miserable history.

The waterskin next to him made what he could have sworn was a questioning _shloop_. His thoughts strayed back to the issue of drink. As a rule his mother never performed the arduous task of boiling ocean water to drink for more than was necessary for one day. That had meant secretly rationing his meager share in his own waterskin, and then surreptitiously filling the rest with some of that one day's water in the pot when Larani had her back turned. She was easy enough to get past once he was assured that she wasn't suspicious. It was his father that always haunted him, looking for a reason to punish him, almost. Rustef had preferred to drink ale, under the pretense of saving Larani some work each day. His son seriously doubted that that was the sole reason.

What he knew, however, was that whether this canteen contained water that left him empty, or beer that emptied him further, there wasn't enough to get him farther than a few more days. The sun had already come and go once since his flight; even as he imposed such ascetic limits on his rations, he was greatly disturbed by how depleted his supplies seemed after just a single day on the run.

_Maybe I did this wrong,_ he found himself thinking, gazing between the indistinguishable sea and clouds while absently rubbing his ankle. _Maybe I should've thought all this through a little while longer._

But he knew in his heart that he would have died or gone mad, had he done so. For eternity uncounted, it seemed, he had wanted out. There had to be something better out there, there just _had _to be. From dragging his feet to the tiny market that formed the hub of the hamlet, he knew that the outskirts of Neklara weren't the ends of the world. They had been the ends of _his _world. Now he was going to change that.

He had been no better than a slave within his own family. Or what _wasn't_ his family. They had really been just a man, woman and boy living and bickering under one roof. He had little notion of what a real family was supposed to be, but whatever family truly meant, his had most certainly not felt like it.

A sudden pop in his other ankle as he stretched it brought him back to the present. He shook himself—as a youngling he had loved to simply sit and wonder; that had earned him countless beatings until he'd finally stopped. Now he would try not to lose track of the issues before him—not for fear of some hairy, sweaty fisherman striking him to the ground, but because his own survival counted on it.

He had to find some place that would replenish him. Some other source of food, or some freshwater spring, though from his limited knowledge of local cartography he knew there was little chance of that. Curse the gods! All he knew from market gossip about Aepia's location was that it was quite a few leagues south. He'd brought as much as he could get away with carrying… but was it enough? Gods, was he even going in the right direction? No, he knew the positions of the stars, which one pointed north. He couldn't have gotten it wrong. Everything depended on doing this right. He didn't want to die here on the beach, stranded between slavery and the life he chose for himself…

Or did he?

For quite some time, he'd thought it would have been better to just lie down and let darkness consume him. Although he would quickly banish the thought, disgusted at the idea of such pathetic submission, some days it had been very tempting to do so. In the weeks leading up to his escape, such days dawned with increasing frequency. Sometimes, the struggle to live seemed just pointless. The gods had forsaken his family. They had forsaken Neklara from the start. Every day, it was just get out on that boat, praying Aunue not to sink it; waiting for witless little fish to tangle and thrash themselves to death in the net; wearing his arms out rowing back to shore and hauling the meager catch ashore every sundown; sipping brackish water, nibbling on disgusting oily fishmeat and then holding it down in his stomach as he flung himself onto the softest spot on the dirt floor he could find; thinking of the sky outside as he closed his eyes, only to open them again a couple of hours later and starting all over. It wasn't like any improvement would come out of that endless, wearisome cycle.

He sighed from his soul, visually trying and failing to catch a blurry star through a rip in the clouds. Who was he kidding? Years ago he'd learned that trying to shut out reality only sharpened its fangs for the moment that it finally bit. There had been much more than that to his former life. Namely, his father striking him to the ground when he so much as asked a question, or for no other reason than he'd drank far more distilled ale from the market than was good for him. Or his mother, glaring at him before shuffling her back to him, turning him away. Gone were the days that she slapped his face and snapped at him, gone right with the days when he'd a mind to come to her for help.

_Old woman didn't give a damn about me. Neither did he, and I don't give a sorry damn about them._

To think that that could have been his whole world, for the rest of his life. His father had growled from time to time about finding the boy a wife and getting him out of the house. _Aye, bet the old crank wanted me out. Forget him. I wanted out myself, and that's all that matters. It's my life, and I'm alone. Forget it all._

_Forget it all…_

If he forgot, there would be no way for anyone in Aepia to tell him that he wasn't good enough; that a craven young Neklaran fisherman had no chance to make something of himself. If he left his past behind, the future might be open to him. He could start over, and forget that he was the wretched son of Rustef and Larani of Neklara. He was surprised that he remembered their names; to him they were just 'him' and 'her'. Yes, how dearly he wanted to forget. Forget who he was and where he'd come from.

_Not like I would lose anything valuable by forgetting everything. Even _my _name doesn't matter… who cares if my name is… is…_

Gods, he couldn't even remember his own name now! The boy felt his stomach twist as a chilling sense of void crept into his mind: this could be either a good omen in that he was already leaving his old self behind, or an ill sign in that he was too stupid to remember his own identity.

Stupid…

_"Stupid little bastard!" The openhanded slap sent him staggering back, nearly falling into the shoddy wall behind him. Underestimation of the raw strength in that man's arms, hard-gained from years upon years of toil, could be fatal. "Stupid, stupid, stupid! If I tol' ye once, I tol' ye till yer deaf ears fall off: _Never drop the net! _You got that thro' __'em deaf ears o' yours, boy? I don' care if ye drown; I don' give a damn so long's ye save the cetch: ye _never _drop the godsdamn net!"_

_He stood there with both cheeks burning and ears ringing, shoulders slumped in shame, unable to face the irate man in his fear and humiliation. He stared at the scratched, sun-darkened tops of his feet instead, and a fearful thought crept into him: suppose his father cut or lamed him for his latest mistake? Thanks to him, they would now go hungry for—_

_Suddenly his blood shot cold spikes into his skin as he felt Rustef approach him. He could smell the man's foul aura of sweat, fish, salt and ale very sharply—he was too close. Knowing what was coming, the boy shrank back against all hope of escape, raising his arms to shield his face. The uselessness of the move was affirmed when his father seized him by the front of his ragged tunic._

_Squeezing his eyes shut in terror, he felt himself dragged by his shirt to another part of their wretched hut, then spun around and grabbed by his father's meaty, grit-soiled hand. It clamped down on the scruff of his neck, stronger than the jaw of the most fearsome turtle; he was sure Rustef wanted to snap his neck right there._

_"Look, woman! Look on this wretch'd whelp spawned and sent to us by Gorothin hisself to leech the very life from us! We was used, Larani." Even as his voice lowered to a vengeful hiss, Rustef's breath—laden with wafts of bad ale from the market—blasted hot, heavy and foul on the back of his head. "We was used by Gorothin," the fisherman continued, "to take his own whoreson tadpole and bring him into this thrice-damned world! The King of Slime used _you_, consuming our first child as it came into bein', then takin' our last after squeezin' ye in yer agony to deliver this—this li'l _demon!

_Rustef__ cursed him vehemently, calling his son all manner of degrading names that he had by now been desensitized to. The boy braced himself slightly, so that he was mercifully able to catch himself and stumble only slightly when his father inevitably shoved him forward. He couldn't help opening his eyes momentarily, his heart sinking despite all as he first saw the weathered, bitter skin-and-bones of his mother, her dark rheumy eyes glaring balefully at him. The shadows in those eyes held nothing but apathetic hatred for him._

_"…an' __'e can put t'gether a new net, p'raps bind it to his wrists so's 'e don't drop it and our lives wi' it again!" he heard Rustef continue behind him. His breath caught in fear as he was yanked back and around again, his vision suddenly filled with his father's haggard face. He instinctively recoiled from the disgusting odor of stale alcohol riding on Rustef's ragged breath._

_The older man's bloodshot eyes, dull though they looked, pierced into his own with the fearsome power of hate. "Ye'll be startin' on that new net now, boy," he snarled in the boy's face. "An' I'll have it done by t'morrow's morn—an' ye know whud'll hafta be done if it ain't!" He gave a bitter laugh, another cloud of foul alcoholic breath billowing from his mouth, and shoved the boy away, stumbling off to where the aleskins were kept._

_The boy stood numb. The sun had just vanished from the horizon behind the clouds; one look at the blackness waiting outside confirmed that. The air hung even heavier than usual, foreboding of a coming storm. Merciful Mistel, he'd only begun to master the dreary craft of net-weaving; how did Rustef possibly expect him to finish an entire net by sunrise?_

_He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. _She_ had been making and repairing strong nets for practically all her life. He had a dreadful feeling that he knew what response he would get, but it was still worth a try… wasn't it?_

_From the corner of his eye, he warily watched Rustef unscrew the rough cap from an aleskin and throw his head back to chug the ruinous stuff. Good, he wasn't paying attention. He shifted his view to the other side of his peripheral vision, straining his eyeballs to catch sight of the hovel's single female inhabitant. As far as he could tell, Larani turned back to the wall and resumed sewing—or brooding, whatever she had been doing; he couldn't tell._

_That night's scant provisions threatened to erupt, but he swallowed hard and—checking once more that Rustef wasn't looking—turned, approaching and squatting before his mother. The expulsion of food from his stomach was a very real threat now. _

_"Eh—" He was forced to pause, coercing his body to calm down long enough to get this over with. Larani didn't even look up._

_The boy was very much out of his element; he truly couldn't remember the last time his mother had acknowledged him. He didn't even know what to call her, how to address her. Pleasantries had no meaning here; it was best to come straight out._

_"I—I need ta finish the net, just like… just like __'e said, but I…" He scrambled to cobble a plausible excuse together. "…I need ta make the net strong 'nuff, and I—I think—I mean, I don't think I been… um… makin' nets long 'nuff so's they're all strong-like, yanno? Not like yours. I don' wanna lose the catch again, really I don', but I ain't gonna have it slipping through me net either… so… p'raps ye can—"_

_His timid mumbling was sharply abbreviated as the woman suddenly whirled and a skeletal weathered hand struck the still-tender side of his face. The boy overbalanced and rocked off of his perch on his feet, landing heavily sideways. He felt his heart plummet; he'd had a strong inkling that that was coming, but he'd still hoped…_

_"Donchee _dare_ speak to me, damn you!" snarled Larani, baring cracked yellowed teeth in terrible hatred—stronger, purer, far worse than her husband's alcohol-induced ill will. Her hate for her son came not from drink, but from the bile of bitterness in her heart. Her black eyes now glittered in fury as she stared down at the boy she had brought into the suffering world. "Ye don' dare come a-grovellin' ta me fer help, understand ye? Quit wastin' yer breath an' my life, whelp! You are nothing to me. Nothing! Ye get me?! Ye don' matter. The name _Kouji_ don' have no damn meanin' in me ears no more!"_

With a sharp gasp that knifed deep into his lungs, his body jerked and his eyes flew wide open. Larani, her claw-like fingers raised over him to deliver the finishing blow, her hate-filled eyes boring through him… they had all disappeared, replaced—yet somehow not cleansed away—by the dark, lumpy clouds and dim moonlight frowning down upon him. He hadn't even been aware that he'd lost consciousness. It must have been the day's journey wearing down on his stamina, but…

_Kouji.__ That's—that _was _my name. Kouji._

He mentally clutched the name to himself, half afraid to lose it again, and only reluctantly summoned the will and apathy to push it back away. No, he wasn't Kouji. Not anymore. He was a new person…

_Or I _will_ be, just if I get there…_

Kouji stiffly pushed himself back up into a sitting position, sighed and rubbed his forehead, strangely aware of his calloused fingers brushing the weathered skin above his unusually delicate eyebrows. One glance at the misshapen knapsack plopped next to him and he wanted to groan. Curse that he could never have expected much better fare all his life; how could he survive on that stuff with such limited water? As much as he wanted to cut back even further, the fact that he'd just passed out proved that he wouldn't make it to Aepia with any less. In fact…

…he was starting to seriously doubt he'd make it at all.

Scowling images of his parents filled his mind, resurrected by the dark memory that had caught him off guard just moments before. Kouji felt all his innards sink at the very thought of them. _That was years ago… I can't remember how long. _He faintly recollected that the next morning, when his father was a bit more sober, he'd refused to apologize—admitting a mistake to his son was below what little dignity was left to him—but extended his impossible ultimatum and gave Kouji until the afternoon to finish the net.

Somewhere deep inside, Kouji could somewhat acknowledge that Rustef, for all that he was gruff and sometimes violent, did not fully loathe him like Larani did; he just had a hard life and drunken irrationality was his way of dealing with it. As a youngling, Kouji had seen Rustef take out his bitterness on Larani on a nearly regular basis. Some time after he was old enough to begin learning the fisherman's craft, the target had slowly shifted to him. But even if his father was a scruffy, sometimes violent parent, even if Kouji had long convinced himself of his father's hatred to harden himself to the deep sting and give himself an excuse to hate him back; he knew deep down that Rustef did not truly hate his son. That was Larani's job.

Larani… Kouji swore and clutched his head hard, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain. At times, his mother's neglect was somehow worse than Rustef's on again, off again abuse. At least Rustef took note of his existence, though Kouji often wished he didn't. But the few times Larani acknowledged him, it was always to curse him before turning right back around and retreating within herself. That was _her_ way of dealing with the ill fate Mistel had dealt them all. Strangely enough, it was this maternal apathy that festered deeper within Kouji. He wished he could ignore her as she consistently ignored him, but lately he was of the opinion that she was actually a cruelly cunning method by which the gods reminded him of his own worthlessness: it was a waste to speak to him, to look at him, to acknowledge him. Larani's message was quite clear—he and everything he possessed meant nothing, weren't worth protecting. In all those times as a little boy that Kouji had run to her for shelter from Rustef, he couldn't remember ever feeling so alone as when she ignored him and turned him away.

_Alone.__ Alone, alone, alone…_

"SHUT UP!" Kouji screamed to the sky without even realizing it. "So what if I'm all 'lone, I's s'posed ta be alone! I'll get there, I'm gonna, an' I'll be a-doin' it alone! Ain' nobody who ever gave a damn enough ta help, an' I don' need no help! See, I been alone all me life an' I's still 'live…"

His voice faltered. _I'm still alive… but for how long?_

Slowly his mind had begun to acknowledge that however far Aepia was, his current supplies definitely would not get him there. In his paranoia of being pursued and having full knowledge that Aunue liked to brew ferocious storms around this time of year, combined with some illogical sentimentality—he just wanted out, he didn't _really_ want them to starve—Kouji had opted to head out by foot rather than on their ratty little fishing coracle. After all, his own feet were a bit more reliable for going exactly where he wanted to go; he'd figured that he could save the seafaring for when he'd gained sufficient experience in Aepia.

Now Kouji was starting to realize his folly—he hadn't brought nearly enough supplies to get him to wherever Aepia was at this rate. The throbbing in his ankle had now subsided; but the hazy, slightly foggy shoreline before him was already beginning to swirl in his vision. The exhaustion of the journey was already beginning to take its toll on him, little-traveled hamlet rat as he was. He could press on—_and I will, sure as the Hells of Gorothin_—but his chances of getting to Aepia alive were waning with every passing moment.

_Then why wait? Getcherself going, boy!_

Feeling the fire of determination flicker fitfully in his heart again, Kouji decided to make the most of it as he grabbed his canteen and knapsack and got somewhat unsteadily to his feet, not bothering to test his ankle. He'd already begun to realize the possibility that he would not get much farther alive. Maybe it _was_ hopeless, but that wasn't an excuse to lie down and die like the beaten dog he'd been treated as in his former life. He could go down fighting—no. He _would_ go down fighting. He would fall clutching what little pride was left to him. He couldn't die here without at least trying, he just _couldn't…_

Kouji hazarded a step forward and immediately realized his mistake as white-hot fire shot through his ankle. He just managed to stifle a cry of pain, still unable to hold back a growl as his searing foot gave way.

He stumbled and nearly regained his balance when his ankle jolted again, and with a yelp and a curse he lurched forward to collapse face-first into the yielding, but gritty dirt surface—only to have Mistel tease him all the more as he tumbled head-over-heels down the slope of the dunes.

Kouji shut his eyes, forced to submit to complete humiliation as he flipped over his back and rolled off the top of his head… and again… and again… and again. At last he landed with quite a hefty _thud_ on what felt like the beach itself, judging by the way the grains poked mercilessly into his face.

For several moments he simply remained sprawled facedown on the sand, motionless in his incredible shame with Mistel and the laughing stars as witnesses. His hands before him spasmed, curling into fists and uncurling. His mind was wiped clean but for one infernal mantra of a thought: _What in the hell is happening to me?!_

_What the bloody hell do you _think_ is happening to you? You _know_ there's a reason you fell._

_No. It can't be—_

_It is. You're not destined to make it. Give up, son of Aunue. You're destined to _fail.__

Kouji opened his mouth to curse Gorothin's snakelike voice out of his brain and back into the Realms of the Damned where it belonged; he was rewarded with an invasion of dusty grit in his mouth. Retching, the boy hurled himself to his knees as he hacked and spat furiously. Damn, damn, damn everything! Bastard Gorothin by some devilry must have turned Soprotae against him…

His expulsions of sandy saliva and muffled expletives dropped off. Kouji felt something drain from his chest, leaving a yawning cavity of wretchedness in its wake. So it was true; he wasn't meant to make it. The gods and the whole world had turned against him—

His chest contracted inexorably. They'd all turned against him, they all hated him, they all wanted him to die! And for what? What had he ever done to them?!

A fist smashed into the hard, compacted sand beneath the dry dust. He opened his mouth, but no profanities he knew of could be summoned to sufficiently mete out his rage. They hated him, and he hated them back; he hated the whole world back! He'd been the one leading the sorry existence, the one oppressed from night to day and back again. Up until now he'd taken all this cruelty without complaint; he'd done _nothing _to garner the sufferings of sinners—

Eventually his heart slowed and his hitching breath began to ease, though the chasm of despair only widened. His thoughts raced round and past him, leaping from star to star of their own volition. He _had _done nothing, and this was what condemned him. There was nothing he _could_ have done. He was simply too weak, too stupid; no matter what he tried, there was no way he would make it.

_Yes there would be!_ he thought furiously, only to realize that whether there had been a plausible way to escape or not, it was too late.

But reason be damned. Fate be damned. For a moment despair was consumed by the roaring fire of anger. He'd get as far as he could, he'd _crawl_ all the way to Aepia purely to spite Mistel and the fate she'd laid out for him. And then he would fall, fall laughing to the Realms of the Damned; he would die laughing in the faces of the gods and the dreary, pathetic world and all their pointless wrath.

With that the Neklaran scrambled unsteadily to his feet, feeling the last vestiges of his sanity flee him as he began to run. He carried nothing but the rags hanging off his spare frame, but his hunger and thirst and pain were utterly forgotten in a trice. He stumbled several times only to scrabble back upright and keep on going. He just wanted to keep running and running, whether his feet led him to Aepia or the Realms of the Damned or nowhere at all. His breath came loud and harsh, like a hound moving in for the kill.

The fury-laden spike of adrenaline or the absence of reasonability, however, in no way exonerated him from the physical consequences he had amassed. After what felt like hours, though from the faintly visible moon's position it could only have been a few minutes, he felt fire licking his chest deep inside—the kind that burned. He desperately wanted to stop, and yet for some reason that eluded his conscious thought (if indeed it still existed) he was mortally afraid of slowing even for a step. So he kept pushing, wanting to scream with every exhalation, but he had no breath for it. The sinews in his ankle burned from the strain, though he tried to pay them no mind.

Then they gave out. A blazing swath cut through his ankle in midstride and his overbalanced with a cry of pain. He landed heavily on all fours, the crazy urge to yell clawing at him as he fought for breath, the cold air stinging his dry throat. The world seemed to spin beneath him in every direction, taking him with it.

The very moment he had enough air in his lungs, he screamed.

It cost him dearly, but he wanted—needed to do it again. And he did, over and over. He sat up, threw his head back and kept screaming. Who knew that such a simple act left him so empty, and yet felt so relieving… so good?

He kept doing it until his throat rasped like sand and his tortured cries had been reduced to strangled whimpers. By then he had no energy to yell anymore. Tiny black sprites danced before his eyes, the world still crazily tilting to and fro, and his heart was on the brink of exploding. Moreover, he no longer _had_ anything to scream about. He reached inside himself only to grasp emptiness. There was nothing left.

Even as he thought this, misery suddenly erupted from his chest. The struggle to fight the tears only served to hasten their arrival, and minutes later he was in parts horrified, disgusted and relieved as he began to sob in earnest. In a way, it was deliverance to let the shame, anger, self-loathing and sheer hopelessness spill forth from his eyes and sink beneath the sand. To his credit, Kouji did make a few half-hearted attempts to calm down, but the peace would last no longer than a moment before melancholy pulled him back under. He had no reason to cry, and yet that in itself was the reason. He wanted someone to hold him, to comfort him like a babe and murmur tender words in his ear; but no one would.

He had no one. He was truly alone.

Through his sobs an ironic, bitter laugh escaped his lips. The sky taunted Kouji, flinging his own words back at him to ring snidely in his skull. _So what if I'm all 'lone, I's s'posed ta be alone… Ain' nobody who ever gave a damn enough… I been alone all me life…_

"Listen t' yerself," he growled aloud, a mad grin pulling at his lips even as tears rolled past them. Intermittent sobs chopped his words like fish under Larani's rusted blade. "Ye're all alone now…"

_But now I _hate_ being alone!_ he wailed silently as a fresh flow of tears killed his ability to speak. So _this_ was what it was like to be truly alone, and he wanted no part in it. He was becoming more and more assured that this journey would kill him; and even if it didn't, how could he be so sure he'd make it in Aepia? He had only rudimentary experience at best. He would be given the lowliest of posts if anyone bothered to take him, or otherwise starve to death as a street urchin.

_Whether you enjoy the aloneness or not, lad, you're stuck with it now. You can never go back._

Kouji bent his head to bury it in his arms when nausea caught him unawares and sent his senses into a sickening tailspin. He managed to lunge forward just in time to keep from soiling his rags, but he was all too aware that his dignity and had deserted him as he spit up what little mush had occupied his stomach.

Retching until he had been quite thoroughly emptied of all food, Kouji sat back and wiped a thread of sick from his chin, altogether disgusted and miserable.

Craving to rinse his mouth of the filth before taking a long, much-needed drink, Kouji fished around for his waterskin—and felt his blood freeze when he failed to find it. He had left it, he belatedly recollected, he had left both the waterskin and pitiful sack of food behind when he'd gone off on his mad sprint. Damn, how far _had_ he gone? Too far, judging by the fact that he was well beyond familiar territory now and his gear was nowhere in sight.

Swallowing the urge to wail even though he knew the tears would no longer come, Kouji let out a few savage oaths as he ground the sand beneath his palms, picking it up and letting it sift through trembling fists. There was no way he was turning back to retrieve them, wherever they were; not when hunger and thirst were already eating up his innards and he knew that even if Aunue hadn't claimed his supplies already, there wouldn't be enough to satisfy him or keep him alive. He wasn't going back.

So that was it, then. He was dying right here.

Shakily Kouji got to his feet, distractedly combing his fingers through the tail of hair at the back of his head as he struggled to stare reality in the face. For all that he'd entertained the fear that it would end this way, he hadn't really considered that it _would_ happen, save for the past few hours. But whether he willed it or not, all of his wild dreams and schemes, all his plans and efforts had come to naught. The moon was still rising, having yet to reach its loftiest perch behind the dimly lit glares of clouds, but he knew that he could probably expect to live until this time tomorrow at the longest.

An unexpected prickle and shiver on his skin halved that estimate. Somehow he had previously failed to notice how just how cold it had become. How could he have forgotten so quickly? Last night had been unseasonably warm, but the bitter winds were blowing back in from the ocean's vast expanse. October was never known for its warmth, especially not on the coast at nightfall.

Kouji convulsively clutched at his thin hemp tunic, shredded from years of wear, and gazed out to sea—or tried to as his stomach roared and he was attacked by the dizziness of hunger. What now? Did he just lie down and wait for death to claim him?

He didn't know what to think about the death part—he tried not to think of it at all—but the rest of the suggestion sounded like a very good idea right about now. Not knowing what else to do, he stumbled well away from the thin, rank puddle of sick before falling heavily to his knees and lying on his left side, tightly hugging his shoulders.

Kouji tried to blank his mind and stop thinking altogether. But as he cast about for any alternative to mulling over how miserable his life had been from start to finish, he ended up fantasizing about what he might've done in the port city itself, futilely denying how unattainable it had now become. He would've asked around, maybe, to find some captain to take him on as a hand or an apprentice or something… but first he would've bought some decent food—

_Bought?_

Kouji's eyes shot open, then closed tight in sheer anguish. Only now did he realize that he'd neglected to bring any amount of money, even a fraction of what precious little his parents possessed. Only now did he realize he hadn't even had a solid plan for surviving in Aepia itself. Even if he weren't consigned to death right now, even if he'd fulfilled his plans and arrived in the city, he probably would have ended his short days as a starving beggar in Aepia's streets.

So much for plans and dreams! Even if he'd succeeded, he would have failed. He had sealed his doom simply by walking out the door. There was truly no escape. And why? Because he hadn't thought things through, he hadn't planned right, he'd been so utterly, unforgivably _stupid…_

The boy thrashed in the sand, feebly pummeling the ground with every reminder of failure, every self-damnation until he could take no more and broke into tears once again. He curled in on himself and wept, his heart tearing with self-hatred, misery and complete, utter loneliness. Damn it all, why wouldn't the gods just let it _end?_

_I want to die…_

* * *

He jerked awake with a gasp. He hadn't known he'd been unconscious, or for how long. The darkness that greeted him left him confused for a moment before he realized it was still dusk.

Memory found its way back to him in instants. He must have cried himself to sleep; it was the last thing he could remember doing. Kouji felt the blood crawl about halfway up his cheeks before it halted and drained. He was torn between shame at his abysmal callowness and utter apathy for anything and everything that might transpire now. Nothing was below him now that he'd sunk so far, not even tears. After all, in a few hours it wouldn't matter anyway.

But even as he lay shivering on the sand, waiting to fall into black unending sleep, before long his pride was rankled. Kouji was slightly surprised that it was still there to begin with, but now he was becoming far more annoyed, ashamed… and _angry_. Angry that out of all the miserable wretches the gods could have picked to toy around with like this, it had to be _him_. Angry that he had been reduced to this unforgivable weakness. Angry that he now had no choice but to submit to the humiliating doom they had now laid before him.

Just as he heard the faint roar of a small wave tearing itself apart on the shore at his feet, a queer thought entered his mind:

_No choice?_

Kouji shivered against the gentle breeze whistling over and through him like death's cold fingers. Oh, how he could hear the gods cackle, Gorothin loudest of all, and the rest joining him in their cruel sport. His ragged fingernails dug into his palms until they drew blood. They _dared_ laugh at him in his last misery? He'd show them—he'd spoil their fun and strike the sneers from their faces.

_By Aunue, getcherself up!_ Rustef's hoarse, slurry voice echoed in his head. _Get up an' make yerself useful, else I'll bind ye up in a net an' offer ye to Gorothin meself!_

Rustef had always muttered about sacrificing his son to the gods. And from the crude banter of the fishmongers, Kouji was faintly aware that in dark days long past, the gods had demanded their own sacrifices—he couldn't remember very well how Mistel and Soprotae had wanted theirs, but Gorothin preferred the flesh set aflame—and Aunue took her offerings herself… in the sea.

Slowly he sat up, bracing himself and taking deep biting breaths of chill ocean air as his stomach roared and his head spun. Thinking literally hurt. It was with an odd sense of finality that, once his senses had settled enough, he decided that firstly, he wasn't going to last more than a few hours in this state; and two, that he could revenge himself upon the gods, have the last bitter laugh and end his own suffering in one fell stroke. Kouji's head pounded mercilessly, and yet everything was becoming so clear now. So simple.

The boy opened his eyes and found dark waves awaiting him.

Slowly he got to his feet, nearly collapsed, and regained his balance. He could barely see through the dark and dizziness, but with that same strange finality he mustered the strength to walk, slowly and steadily, to embrace the water and his death. He took another breath and tried to clear his thoughts as he walked. If he willingly offered himself to Aunue and appeased her, the gods would be obliged to offer him some form of recompense. Peace. Oblivion.

Kouji found himself having to battle away some emotion as he reached the water's edge and the frigid waves licked his bare toes: Regret. Trepidation. Relief. Sorrow. And maybe—maybe just a hint of pride. Pride that he had found a way to defy the gods and yet perhaps dodge their wrath. Pride that he, Kouji the wretched son of Rustef, was deciding his own fate.

He waded out into the shallows. The freezing water gave his legs a nasty jolt and his senses reeled. But he soldiered on, pointedly ignoring the icy pain shooting through his legs, drawn by the dark lure of eternal sleep until his body was submerged from the waist down, when he was too numb to go on. Kouji shook uncontrollably with the cold, feeling his teeth chatter violently and his bones rattle.

_By rights I ought to be…_ Actually, he couldn't decide what he ought to be feeling right now—scared, depressed, anguished or whatever a man about to die was supposed to feel like. But now he felt… _calm_, and it didn't feel quite appropriate. But a wave rolled in, soaking him up to his midsection and nearly carrying him off his feet, and he decided, _No time for that now, I guess._

The cold was so severe that he could barely breathe. Spikes of ice gouged away at his stomach, and a dull ache was all that seemed to remain of his legs. Kouji was paralyzed, and he could see nothing.

_What am I doing here?_ part of his mind wondered stupidly, but a word echoed almost inexplicably in his head: _Death. Death. Death._

_There is no turning back._

His teeth chattering themselves to pieces, Kouji slowly lifted his head to find the thinning shreds of cloud backlit by eerily pale light. They glided over him, taking seconds and ages at once, to reveal a perfect ivory-crescent moon in the gaping tears of their knotted fabric.

The holy white sickle and glittering stars reeled out of view as Kouji collapsed sideways into the October waters.

The cold shock of the sea rammed through his heart and his eyes opened wide to nothing. Animal instinct and primal panic took over as his leaden limbs flailed haplessly. _Breathe, breathe, can't breathe, need air! _In desperation he opened his mouth—and gulped down brackish water. He couldn't see anything, didn't know which way was up… he reflexively imbibed liquid until his whole body felt waterlogged and his head whirled sickeningly. He was drifting, drifting… the resistance increased and his futile struggles gradually ceased.

_O, gods deliver me! _But as once more a chilling serenity settled over him, he knew he would never breathe ocean air or see the sky again. This was it.

_You got what you wanted, _was his last cynical thought as Aunue's saving darkness took him.

_

* * *

_

_On a different day  
If I was safe in my own skin  
Then I wouldn't feel  
Lost and so frightened  
But this is today  
And I am lost in my own skin  
And I'm so lonely I don't even want to be with myself anymore._

—Dido, "Honestly Okay"

* * *

Reviewer Responses

**Gemmani**** Girl:** _(amused laughter) __Has__ Kouji died? We shall see! Thanks for the review; it's a major confidence boost to see that people are still reading!___

**Akino**** Ame:** _Don't worry about it, your review and your sister I mean. Thanks for the reassurance; I did put months into the chapter but I still can't be sure how it turned out. As for the similarities between Kouji and Briar; Neklaran and Niklaren… I barely remember anything from _Circle of Magic _(what's Emelan again?), so those are completely coincidental and it kind of creeps me out. The whole sacrifice theme really isn't a theme; it's supposed to be a minor motif. The history and religion of the _Drifters_ universe is still in progress, but I believe I've written somewhere that human sacrifice is a fairly archaic practice that people now refer to mainly as a rather vulgar figure of speech. (adds preceding sentence to liner notes in LJ) Funny, I kind of meant it to be depressed suicide (and in a way it is) but things changed a bit and got rather interesting when I threw anger into the mix. Glad to hear you enjoyed it despite the rather dreary subject matter, and thanks again for the high school reassurances!_

* * *

**Coming up:** _Unbeknownst to Kouji, there is another lost soul taking a walk on the shore that night.__ What becomes of that coincidence is detailed in the (fairly short) chapter of _"In with the Tide"_… COMING SOON to a computer screen near you!  
And to you skeptics asking how soon is soon… no comment._

_Thank you for reading!  
Raven_

_P.S. Please think of me as I start freshman year next week. High school looms on the horizon. :-(_


End file.
